


this is the road to ruin (and we're starting at the end)

by castleinthesky (choirboyharem)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Young Blood Chronicles, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26023663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/castleinthesky
Summary: It's too difficult for the naysayers to maintain control over the demon that inhabits the Defenders of the Faith's lead singer, so they subject him to the only other member that they believe can properly force him into placidity.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz, Pete Wentz/Other(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	this is the road to ruin (and we're starting at the end)

**Author's Note:**

> after my fob phase came back, attacking me in full force these past several months, making me feel seventeen again, i rewatched ybc a few times and it broke my brain even further. so, uh, this. if there's lore and other stuff i got wrong, please write angry letters on my myspace wall over it. i'm sure this was not pete's original intended vision anyway (or maybe it was, who knows?). this is set after 'alone together', or, most accurately, just right after patrick is turned.

“Where the fuck are you taking me?” Pete’s voice was strained and taut and worn out, his throat begging him to stop asking for context to this particular phase of his kidnapping by now. Infuriatingly, the fucking harpies he kept badgering didn’t seem to care about what he was saying either way. He might as well have been gagged. All he was doing was wearing himself out further, which was, all things considered, a really shitty idea if he was going to try to make an escape attempt and find any of the rest of the guys. With both hands intact. He was still more than a little faded, hypersensitive, his chest heavy and his head light. The fluorescents that lined the filthy hallway made his eyes burn. His mouth was slick and bitter and rotten. He didn’t know what he’d been doped up with, but he knew it wasn’t anything he was going to be able to just sleep off later. 

Despite it all, Pete tried again for a response, making another useless effort to yank out of the grip of several hands’ worth of razor-sharp fingernails digging into his arm. “Goddamnit, I just want some answers! What else do you want me for? A fucking snuff film?” 

“Something like that,” one of the soldiers cooed at him, reaching up to fondle his hair. Pete snarled and tried to jerk away from the touch. She laughed and gripped tighter, pulling hard and making him tear up before she let him go. “We need a big, strong man to play with our new toy.”

“Big? Lady, I don’t think you’ve got the right guy. I think you want someone else. So you should let me go.” 

“No, we want  _ you, _ Mr. Big Shot Defender. We wouldn’t want it to be anyone else. After all, he trusts you the most, doesn’t he?” 

“What—” Pete swallowed hard against the bile that had been steadily crawling up his throat for the past hour or so. The past two hours, maybe. He didn’t know anymore. “He? Who the fuck are you talking about? What do you even want me to do? Like, hurt him? I won’t—”

“Just the opposite,” another soldier replied smoothly. She shot Pete a grin; he vaguely recognized her as one of the girls who’d shoved her tongue down his throat while he was tied down. He looked away from her, feeling even sicker. “We want you to  _ pleasure  _ him. Or, well.” She laughed. “If his body allows it, anyway. This is far more of a reward for you than it is for him. You’ll have us to thank for it.” 

Pete’s stomach sank like a stone, dread filling him with a heaviness that clogged him from head to toe. “You want me to—” He couldn’t force himself to say it. “Are you serious? I’m not doing that. You can’t make me do that. Fuck you. I don’t care who it is.” 

A few of them exchanged looks that Pete really, really didn’t like. They tittered like birds. 

“Oh, I really, really think you do,” the first soldier told him, releasing Pete’s bound arms for a moment so she could fling open the doors at the end of the hallway. 

“No,” Pete forced out of his toxic mouth, the dread rising to the point that he felt like he was going to start choking to death on it. 

Patrick was strapped down to a table in between another handful of soldiers, writhing and covered in either his own blood or someone else’s. He made noises that didn’t sound human, grating, like nails on a chalkboard, flickering in and out in spasms between what his voice was naturally supposed to sound like. Harsh cries that dragged themselves through Pete’s head, making it throb. He sounded like he was in unearthly pain, like every bone in his body was broken. It was heartbreaking agony just to listen to it: Pete felt like he could probably tear through the leather straps with his teeth with the desperation to feel Patrick in his arms and do  _ something.  _

_ “What did you do to him!?” _ Pete shouted like the words were being spat out in blood, red and screaming and violent. Forgetting that any part of his body had exhausted itself, he tried to tear at the soldiers clinging at him. He kicked the woman in front of him and twisted, the heels of his shoes screeching over the floor as he was shoved back again. One hand clamped over his mouth and another went over his eyes, the unforgiving enamel of a high heel driving down into his foot. The ropes around him tightened and knuckles sank into the side of his jaw, snapping it sideways. 

“Gag him,” a soldier ordered. It sounded dim. Pete was so angry he could barely hear anything over the pulsing in his ears. “I can’t hear myself think.” 

Patrick fell silent. Pete bit at the hand over his mouth and promptly received a stinging slap across his cheek for it. His fucking teeth were starting to hurt now. 

“Our darling, tormented artist is still a bit  _ too  _ tormented,” the soldier who had demanded silence said. Pete felt another hand in his hair and he made a noise fraught with loathing, muffled and spat out against the hand that suppressed him. “He’s filled with so much passion and anger and dysfunction, bitterness and hate and sadness; it wars with his new identity. He’s far too unstable to be part of the cause as is. He’s feral. Far more animal than man. He’s untrained. But  _ you, _ Defender,” she murmured, twisting her hand in Pete’s hair and leaning in close, her lips brushing his ear and making a wave of nausea curdle his insides, “you can train him. Haven’t you been wanting to for years?”

Pete didn’t have the mental capacity to work through the levels of the sickening heat that licked at him. He swallowed thickly and took in a shaking breath when the hand was finally removed from his mouth. “Fuck you,” he repeated, coarse and weak. “You won’t make me do that to him. I’d  _ never  _ do that to him. I’ve never wanted to—”

“We don’t have time for this,” another soldier hissed, piercing Pete’s arm with her grasp. “Inject him.” 

“Patience,” the first soldier snapped. Her fingernails dug into his scalp. If Pete weren’t currently undergoing what would most likely blossom into PTSD (and why not add another illness to the books, right?), very specific aspects of this would be sexier. Which tied him into further knots, self-hatred just making him feel even more like he could puke. 

“There’s a reason we chose you,” she continued, placing a kiss under Pete’s ear that singed him. “We told you, Defender. He needs to be broken in with your body. He needs to be touched with your hands. Your heart beats at the same rate as his, always has, always will. He’s a vile, evil creature and we need you to drag out his innocence from the depths of his soul. Victimize him. Make him feel like the child that you’ve always seen in him.” 

“I won’t touch him,” Pete choked out. “You can’t make me touch him.” He had to cut himself off, nearly letting the  _ “not like this” _ escape him. The guilt only began to manifest in webs that caught at his lungs. Any other protests he could make were shoved back down his throat, a hand on his mouth again.

He heard a snap of somebody’s fingers. “Don’t tear his clothes,” the lead (at least Pete could only assume) soldier who’d been addressing him called out. “We don’t have anything else for him to wear until we get to the base.”

“He kicks,” one of the other ones grunted. “Goddamnit, ow!” 

“Oh, grow up!” the lead snapped at her. “Sedate him if you need to!” She sighed as if someone had gotten her coffee order wrong. All of a sudden, the hand still in Pete’s hair clenched and yanked his head sideways, exposing his neck. He convulsed and yelped when he felt the cold prick of a needle sink into the side of his throat, his limbs begging to lash out. 

“What the fuck was that?” Pete gasped out the second that the sweating fingers left his mouth again. He was getting really, really tired of his vision still being covered. “What did you do? You already tried to drug me up; what the fuck else are you trying to do to me?” 

“It’s just a little bit of encouragement,” the lead said smoothly. “What a shame that we weren’t able to get close enough to you years ago, Defender. What a filthy, dirty, repulsive degenerate you used to be.” Another finger-snap. “Ropes.” 

“I bet he’d wanna touch him right away if the other one were about fifteen years younger,” another soldier said with a sharp snicker. The ropes fell away from around his chest and wrists, but it wasn’t like it offered him much freedom anyway; he was immediately shoved from behind and kicked onto his knees. 

Pete’s body burned. His joints were weak, shorted out like he was fifty years older than he actually was. He could almost hear his blood circulating, thundering in his chest. He clutched at it wildly, his breathing erratic, his vision blurry and out of focus. He still couldn’t really see anyway. 

“What...” Pete looked up at the lead right next to him, crumpled on the floor next to her boots. Her skin seemed to shimmer and his mouth felt dry, his body trembling just from looking at it. Any piece of it he could see looked edible. His brain was suddenly dead, the blood in his head now refusing to circulate anywhere above his midsection. 

He tried to reach out to touch her. Any part of her. She laughed and stepped out of reach, leaving him wanting. It was the most horrible thing she’d done yet. 

“What did you do?” Pete rasped, staring up at the lead. At her chest, really. He needed her to kiss him again, kiss him under his ear, shove her tongue in his mouth,  _ fuck— _

“Setting you free from your inhibitions. Stand up for me.”

Pete did it as easily as breathing. Maybe easier. Far easier. She was only a few inches away from him and he could’ve died to touch her. She reached out and drew her fingernail over his cheek, beaming at him, seeming pleased. “Good boy,” she said. “Turn your head and look for the man you love, Defender.” 

_ Patrick. _ Pete felt his breath catch and hold still as he looked across the room at Patrick’s body, still tied down tight, bound with leather. Saliva shone on the gag in his mouth, leaking out of the split of his lips and running down his chin. His eyes blinked wide, bright yellow and manic, his body twitching. The soldiers had stripped him, wrestling him into forced complacency. His legs had been spread apart, leaving him utterly helpless. 

Pete licked his lips and felt himself shiver. “I can’t,” he managed, barely forming the syllables. “I can’t. Y-you can’t—you can’t make me do this to him.” 

Memories attacked him blind. Pete tasted the salt and the wet of Patrick’s sweat onstage, nose dipping into the crook of his neck and lingering there like it was the only form of Heaven that Pete would ever be offered. He felt the warm, solid, plush familiarity of Patrick’s body underneath him after attacking him and pinning him to the floor of their hotel room, pressing wet, obnoxious kisses against the side of his face, proclaiming that Patrick was his soulmate. So much of it was still so vivid, striking him in color. Little wants, each a new microcosm of his need to have the only person in seemingly the entire world who didn’t want him. 

They’d given Pete permission to taste Patrick’s sweat and anything else he wanted. Anything. 

“But he doesn’t want it.” Pete didn’t know if he was talking to himself or anyone else in the room, clenching his fingers and pulling absently at his jeans. “I can’t. I never could.” 

There was an irritated, frustrated muttering among several of the soldiers, sniping at each other and laughing behind their hands. 

“You can and you will. We know who you are.” The lead grabbed Pete by the arm and pulled him closer to Patrick’s body, dappling them in the sunset that streamed through the windows. It looked enough like the stained glass of a church interior that everything felt so much more unholy. Pete was going to be tainted after this, undeserving of his title as a protector, but he couldn’t even wallow in that. He was too dumbstruck by the feeling of the lead’s touch radiating up his arm and throughout the rest of his body. He was too busy staring at Patrick and every little move he made, at how deep of a chasm his eyes were. He didn’t recognize Pete at all. 

As another wave of heat rolled over Pete, he thought that maybe that in and of itself was a blessing. 

“Do you realize why we took him first?” The soldier released Pete and leaned over Patrick, smiling at him, brushing his bangs back.

“Don’t touch him.” It was the most conviction Pete had had in his voice since he was first dragged in here. “I’ll fucking kill you. Don’t put your hands on him. Not before I can.” 

She held her hands up in surrender, her smile widening. “Exactly my point.  _ You, _ you starved, hormonal-driven, blood-hot, indulgent animal with no real conscience, would follow him to the ends of the Earth. You would abandon everyone else if you really had to. If he spat in your face and told you of your inherent worthlessness, you’d still lap up what you could just so you could get one last taste of him. You don’t worship the Faith, you worship him. Allow yourself this glory, Defender. _ Touch him.” _

_ Touch him.  _

_ Touch him.  _

If only Pete could  _ talk _ to him, just get any hint of recognition, something, anything. Staring at Patrick’s bloodstained cheeks, yellow and hot underneath the lights and the dimming sunlight from just beyond the windows, he pressed a shaking hand into Patrick’s bare thigh. It was whitehot underneath Pete’s touch, trembling just as badly as Pete was. 

Patrick was hurting. In Pete’s slurred, frenzied brain, he thought that maybe he, himself, was the cure after all. Maybe he could fix him. For once in his life, he could fix Patrick. Patrick needed an exorcism so he could return to the Faith. 

Pete didn’t even care about how many eyes there were in the room (as if that was something he’d honestly ever cared about before). They didn’t matter. His body guided itself onto the dissection table Patrick had been subdued on top of, fitting into the spaces that had been carved out. The demon’s eyes flickered rapidly, narrowing and eyeing Pete with mindless distrust and anger. None of the baby blue. No little flecks of green and gold. It was all blankly vibrant, soullessly colorful. Teeth gripped at the gag in Patrick’s mouth, clenching down. 

His neck was still clean (because of course it would be), mostly free of blood. Pete’s breath shook as he inclined his head, pressing an open mouth to the column of Patrick’s throat. It was like home, a place Pete had kissed dozens of times and had tried to kiss hundreds of times, but this time it made Pete fucking  _ salivate.  _ He could’ve sunk his teeth into Patrick’s skin and pulled until it tore. Patrick’s skin tasted like candy, sugary under Pete’s tongue, pink and full of flavor. Pete couldn’t remember if that was how Patrick had always tasted or if that was a side effect of whatever was making his molecules commit harakiri. 

“You can make love to him in Heaven, or wherever it is you people think you’ll go,” the lead hissed, pulling on Pete’s hair. “We need you to fuck him.”

Pete lifted his head after licking a line up Patrick’s throat, sucking on the hummingbird pulse point. “I’m getting there, you bitch.” He leaned into the soldier’s touch at the same time that he ran his hand down Patrick’s thrumming chest, his stomach, his hip, trying to take in every line, every dip, every texture in record time. “Fuck, you can keep doing that, though.” 

“Slut,” she said with a disappointed sigh, stepping away. Several poorly-concealed giggles rose from around the room. “I genuinely can’t believe you haven’t been excommunicated yet.” 

Pete couldn’t either, but now wasn’t the time. He watched Patrick’s face and how it seemed to flicker again. It looked confused. Still angry, but confused. Maybe the demon just wasn’t used to physical affection. Its impulses begged itself to eat up anything, everything, Pete pressed a kiss to the gag in Patrick’s mouth and reached down to wrap his fingers around Patrick’s cock, his own breath shorting out and dying in a whine just from how it felt to  _ touch. _

“Oh, God, we should’ve picked the drummer,” Pete heard faintly, in one ear and out the other. Patrick’s eyelashes fluttered and fell shut. The yellow behind them almost seemed to dim, but just for a moment. Demons, it would seem, could still get hard. He was hot and full in Pete’s hand and he twitched after Pete stroked his fist up. Pete was far gone enough that he couldn’t remember ever having any kind of reservations with dicks, none at all; he’d let Patrick fuck his throat right now. He’d do anything. He’d do anything to Patrick and accept anything he was given in return. 

“Defender.” The lead snapped her fingers at Pete. When he finally bothered to look at her, he saw a glass vial in her hand. 

“Lubricant,” she informed him. 

It was red. It was a deep, dark red, thick and pure. 

Pete kissed Patrick’s chest and rubbed his thumb over the leaking slit in his hand. “How am I supposed to know that that’s not gonna do some fucked-up shit to me later? Like, suppose it’s gonna flay the skin off my dick or something?” 

She sighed. “Because that’s not where our interests lie. To put it bluntly, we need that to work in the future. Just take it for both his and your sakes’.” She passed him the bottle and snapped her fingers a second time. “Disrobe him.” 

Pete felt pulling, gripping hands everywhere. As he inhaled the scent of Patrick’s skin, his clothes were torn from him, fingers sliding over him and bathing themselves in his flesh. He writhed with them, gasping, clinging to Patrick as he felt sharp nails claw at him. He felt a kiss on his cheek and it seemed to sear down to the bone. He was completely exposed, but his body implored that it didn’t matter, too drunk on whatever it was that was humming loud and bright under the surface. 

The lead’s hand slipped down, running over the muscles of his back. Pete’s eyes fell shut, heat licking down his spine, chasing her fingertips. “Oh, Defender,” she whispered, “we’ll have you someday. You’ll be so valuable to us. Your body is a rare currency.” She tightened her grip around the back of his neck. “Use it. Fuck him the way he deserves. Impale him.” 

The demon contorted. His eyes flickered again. For a moment, Pete saw the baby blue, pupils dilated, blinking in utter bemusement before Patrick’s head jerked to the side, mouth pulled in a sneer and eyes burning once more. 

This was merciful. This was all because Pete was a merciful member of the Faith. It was for Patrick’s sake. 

Pete uncapped the vial in his hand, pushing up the top with his thumb and letting the glass clatter to the floor. The liquid inside seeped through his fingers, coating them in shiny, shiny scarlet. It smelled like figs and roses and firewood. Like sin. 

“I’ll get you out,” he told Patrick, practically panting as he reached down and stroked his fingers over Patrick’s tight, pink hole. The demon twitched and a muffled whine escaped from behind the gag. “I swear to God, we’ll go on fucking vacation or something, just take a weekend, give the assignment to the guys and figure everything out. It’ll be better than this.”

“He can’t hear you,” Pete heard one of the other soldiers say in exasperation behind him. He disregarded it. He kissed Patrick’s collarbone and pushed a slick finger inside him, working it in deep. Patrick’s hips jerked, his cock twitching. Even tied down and possessed, Patrick was so responsive, shivering and noisy and giving in to Pete’s touch as if he’d been commanded. 

Pete’s cock ached. He slid another finger in alongside the first, too impatient to wait and feeling the stretch of it around him far too soon. The demon snarled around his gag and clenched down hard around Pete’s hand. 

Pete remembered chance instances of bowing his head during services, accepting what he was given and catching Patrick’s eye as a prophet spoke to them and to the rest of the service. They could have entire conversations with little twitches, blinks, half-hidden smiles, and almost imperceptive changes in expression, sharing their thoughts in those moments of intimacy. He remembered clutching at Patrick in desperation, seeking the Faith in him and him alone, the embodiment of what it meant to be a Defender, stronger in it than the rest of them could ever hope to be. Pete would worship him. Pete did. He’d gladly accept the end of sound if it meant he was allowed to feel Patrick’s hands on his face and hear his voice as a substitute, singing softly and quietly in Pete’s ear every night as they hid his talents from the opposition. 

Everything about this was wrong. At the very least, Patrick deserved more. Their first time—if Pete was foolish enough to think that was a possibility outside of this—deserved to  _ be _ more. But it couldn’t be and it wouldn’t be and Pete was forced to accept what he was given. Just like always. (Because why not be bitter and enjoy wallowing in his self-made misery whenever he could get the chance, even now?)

When Pete slid his fingers back in and curled them up, he heard the demon moan like he liked it. Like he  _ wanted _ it. And it came through in Patrick’s voice, utterly glorious, savory and rich, enough to make Pete shudder and nearly beg for more. He wanted to rip off the gag and shove his tongue in Patrick’s mouth. He wanted to grab a fistful of his strawberry hair and pull while he licked out Patrick’s mouth and made sure it hurt, leaving Patrick’s scalp throbbing. Not to punish him, but to leave a reminder. Passion was pain was pleasure. 

Pete felt a hand curl into his back as he buried himself in to the knuckle inside Patrick. He hissed and felt himself twist with the cut of it. It dragged down the length of his spine, pulling his skin along with it. Manicured nails bit him hard. Another hand grabbed the back of his neck and crawled up to fist in his hair, tilting his head up so he could kiss another soldier. Her lips were immeasurably soft, juxtaposed violently with the dagger of her teeth. Another hand slid under his stomach, fingers splayed, touching him just for the indulgence of it. 

Maybe this really was where he belonged, Pete thought, feeling dizzy with his fever, drinking in Patrick’s voice above everything else. Maybe his role really wasn’t as a Defender, but as their shame, a piece of meat to be consumed by the eyes of fans. His physique was dirt. He was made to use and be used. He’d given in so easily to this already. Why act as though he was better than that?

“Take him,” the lead said in his ear, her voice like liquid heat. The other soldier broke their kiss and Pete looked at the lead, breathless and clouded. “He’s ready.  _ Take him.” _

Pete gave her a vague nod, looking back at Patrick. His body was flushed, cock thick and dark against his thigh, eyes sparkling. The demon looked as lost as Pete did, too drunk on pleasure to be aware of himself. The soldier who had kissed him giggled softly and gave Pete one last peck on the cheek before pulling away from him. 

The slick on Pete’s hand still hadn’t dried. He shifted and coated his dick with it, fingers sliding up and catching dribbling precum. He swore, oversensitive and horribly on-edge. His shaking, soaked hand reached up to grab Patrick’s thigh, shoving at the soft skin on the underside so he could line himself up. The demon tilted Patrick’s head to the side, trying to understand what Pete was doing now. Pete almost wished he could explain. (Maybe the demon needed some friendly companionship and comprehensive sex education.) 

As sorry as he could act about it, Pete was going to do this anyway. He didn’t have a choice. With an easy roll of his hips, he pushed inside Patrick, gripping him like it was the one solid thing he had left. 

It was fucking agony.  _ Beyond  _ agony. Beyond sheer wonder and joy and delightful, wonderful agony. Pete’s hips pressed flush against Patrick’s ass, tight and hot with Patrick constricting around him. The demon’s breathing heaved around the gag, eyelashes glittering and batting. It exposed Patrick’s neck for him, kept clean as ever, and Pete couldn’t let that go to waste. He leaned down to bite at it again, harder than before, his canines scraping over Patrick’s rapid pulse point as he pulled back and slammed back in. 

“Oh, Defender, what glory you display in your lack of inhibition!” the lead trilled. “Imagine what you could do without the Faith’s claws sunk into your chest! Imagine what you could have with  _ him. This _ could be your eternal bliss.” 

Eternal bliss. Pete’s eternal bliss. He couldn’t picture something like that, but maybe this was close. He found a rhythm, moving through it smoothly, a bassline Patrick would have written for him singing in deep tones in the shell of his ear. Even in the presence of the absence of music, it still propelled Pete forward, connecting him to Patrick even though Patrick was lost. Even though both of them were. Pete needed so badly to see Patrick in this body, seeing him and feeling him and hearing him, looking at him through the same eyes Pete had sought hope and strength and a reason to take another breath in for twelve years. He couldn’t look up to try and search through them right now. Pete kissed a tendon and ran his tongue along the line of it, his mouth falling open in a choked moan when his hips snapped back against Patrick. 

Dimly, Pete could feel other hands touching him again, petting him like he was a puppy. Some empty praise. Some mockery. Some secret desire now able to be expressed openly. His body took it in, licking the salt off the rim of his flesh as he fucked into Patrick, head lifting to finally look at the sweet, soft face below him. 

Patrick’s eyes weren’t yellow anymore. They’d changed back to blue, wide and terrified. Pete’s movements stuttered, his breath catching. He could hear the pound of his own heart. “Patrick?” 

“Don’t stop,” the lead demanded, her clawed fingernails scratching Pete’s shoulder. “Don’t. Not now.” 

And, well. Pete wasn’t going to. The worst part was that he wasn’t ever planning on it, not even now, not even now that Patrick could see him. It really only made it all more intense. As though he didn’t have an ounce of control over his own limbs, Pete tore the gag out of Patrick’s mouth. 

“Pete—?” Patrick tried weakly, timid and wet before Pete cut him off with a kiss. He clutched at Patrick’s hip with one hand, the other sliding under the back of Patrick’s head as he ran his tongue over Patrick’s. Pete felt an uncomfortable sting at the corners of his eyes, but it wasn’t nearly enough to make him stop. 

“Incredible,” the lead breathed, digging the heel of her hand into the nape of Pete’s neck. “You nearly expelled him. Sickening, really, what it is you two share.” 

_ Cryptophasia, _ Pete thought listlessly, pulling Patrick’s bottom lip between his teeth, sinking in until he tasted copper. Patrick sobbed, yanking at his restraints, his mouth moving in helpless  _ “ah, ah, ah” _ s. It sounded fucking beautiful, angelic, glorious—it was Pete’s bliss after all. 

The cooing and praise and jabbing and caresses of the soldiers around him followed him as Pete fucked the demon into submission. Patrick’s eyes continued to flicker, shifting between unfiltered rage and unfiltered terror. Pete kissed him again and felt the demon fight back that time, Patrick’s teeth snapping down and nearly pulling a chunk of flesh away. Blood and saliva coated their lips, red as Pete’s hand, red as lipstick and nail polish and betrayal and heartache and grief and anger, everything that bled from Pete’s chest as he gave in to carnal pleasure again and again. 

The demon fell apart first, drawn up tight, Patrick’s leg hitched up high over Pete’s shoulder. It threw its head against the table, its back arching as it cried out, no longer hindered by the gag. Pete nearly bit his own tongue in two, convulsing, throbbing. His hips sank back in and his mind shuttered off, suddenly offering him nothing but static. He felt nothing but whitehot glory. 

He was certain he blacked out. For a solid three seconds, he was sure he had. Weak and useless, shorted out, Pete found himself on top of Patrick, lethargic and empty. He nuzzled Patrick’s chest, filled with girly, teenage-esque affection. 

The afterglow lasted all of a second and a half. He was pulled off Patrick, taken away from him much too soon. 

“You did very well, Defender,” the lead informed him, a high blush on her cheeks as she cupped the side of his face in her hand. “You responded excellently.”

Dazed, Pete blinked and shook his head a little before glancing back down at Patrick. He was limp and utterly debauched, eyes half-lidded and gold. There was nothing warm or fuzzy in them, just exhaustion and mistrust. 

“You’ll give him back, won’t you?” Pete said, only registering on a minute level that he sounded childishly absurd. 

It raised laughter from the rest of the room. The lead smiled at him. “In time. Or, well, you can hope, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up, personally.” She snapped her fingers a third time. “Dress him.” 

Soldiers swarmed around him, lifting his limbs for him. Pete watched Patrick’s eyes fall shut, cheek pressed against the table.

“What are you gonna do with him?”

“He’s valuable to us,” the lead said simply, her eyes drawing over Pete as he was clothed once more. “Now, it wouldn’t make much sense for us to tell you, would it?”

“I need him back.” Pete swallowed, feeling as small as he sounded. “Please.”

“You’re sweet. Sweeter than most give you credit for, really.” The lead smiled, patting Pete’s cheek. “You’ll see him again, Defender. In which way, I’m not sure, but you’ll love him either way. 

“You always have.” 


End file.
